


The wine-dark Sea

by BrionyTallis (RobbieTurner)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, good ol' stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobbieTurner/pseuds/BrionyTallis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort has Harry exactly where he wants him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The wine-dark Sea

I

From the window in his room he can see the sea as its waves linger for a moment in the sand, leaving their wet fingerprints behind. The small beach is his. It’s strange, to own such a thing, when little more than a decade earlier he didn’t have his own room. Like a song in a movie he saw only once: _how to keep a wave upon the sand?_ How does someone own a piece of the sea?

Maybe it’s easier when that someone is Lord Voldemort.

For a prisoner Harry is kept in relative luxury: the aforementioned _plage,_ the small cottage which it faces, a collection of books (mostly fiction), a piano, a bathtub.  Sure, he’s a little more than a prisoner. He’s a kept bird and a prized possession, a house wife, a courtesan.  Voldemort’s very last horcrux.

This knowledge used to be painful. Now it’s just a fact.

 

“I leave you with the memory of that night because I like to watch your suffering, Harry, as silent and discreet as it has become of late. There used to be such fire on you, little Gryffindor. Have I been successful in putting it out?”

Voldemort is smiling now, reclined in one of the chairs, a spoon travelling in circles in his tea. The table is set for two and prettily so. Harry always uses the finest china when Voldemort visits him. The boy turns, sits on the other chair and pours some sugar into his own cup.

“I won’t sing to amuse you, Tom.” He answers, and drinks. “Write your own damn victory songs.”

“There he is,” Voldemort says, forever good-humoured now that he was proven invulnerable “The boy who dared to annoy me.”

 _I think I did a little more than annoy you,_ Harry thinks, but doesn’t say. Voldemort needs so little to play with him; he won’t give the wizard even more fuel. They finish the tea in silence, the boy feeling Voldemort’s eyes piercing through him, watching him with the same sick fascination a cat has for a fluttering bird.

There’s only tea today, and Harry tries to hold back the disappointment in his voice when Voldemort gets up to leave.

“I thought you were spending the night.” He says, meekly,as Voldemort caresses his cheek.

“Next time, perhaps.” The Dark Lord responds.

 

_Am I boring him already?_

He is now a body in a bathtub, the water growing colder. He is the brittle breath leaving its testament in the glass of a window, the scent in sheets he won’t bother to change. The boy who lived is just an impression of an old world, lingering here softly, a butterfly shyly nested on Tom Riddle’s shoulder.

(He does change the sheets, though, but only in the nights before Voldemort arrives, so the smell of his jailer can last the longest in the bed he sleeps in.)

Against the porcelain, his hair is wet and darker than black.  He tries not to think, not to count treasons on his fingertips; it’s easier if he focus on practical things like how Voldemort _prefers_ him. The Dark Lord is beautiful again – not a skeleton thinly covered by grey, dead skin anymore, but a strong, older version of the young man Harry met in memories. Therefore, harry must be beautiful too: that’s why he lets his hair grow and had his vision fixed and covers his skin with the scents and potions to keep it unblemished. He's a pretty vessel for something horrible.

_“Did you really think I’d be so easily fooled, Harry?”_

He wakes up with the shadow of a scream still in his mouth, a tear in the corner of his eye. He should be used to it by now, but he isn’t, the same way it’s always a novelty, a terrible wonder, when Voldemort fucks him. Maybe this day won’t come – a day of freedom through indifference. Maybe he’ll die a bird still longing for the sky.

It’s already morning, the light comes so white through the curtains it almost hurt his eyes. Harry wraps himself in an old blanket and steps outside. No tiny pieces of glass under his skin, no screaming, no blood coming out like tears from his eyes. No spells he can name.  Harry never would have thought that Voldemort would be so refined, so patient, as to torture him with _loneliness_ , but he is. He closes his eyes, replaying is his head the mistakes he made.  This torture is his own and it tastes like copper in his tongue. Voldemort knew; he bloody _knew_ Harry was a horcrux. He remembers feeling terror like never before, ironically because, for the first time, Voldemort didn’t want to kill him.

When Harry comes back, sand in his clothes and salt in his hair, the Dark Lord is reading a book and waiting for him. Harry lets out a needy, surprised sigh, and run to his arms.

 

II

The War was turning that night. Hogwarts was soiled with death, but with victory so near there was no time to count the bodies and mourn. He actually thought: _We can do this. We can win._

Hours later, Voldemort held his chin in his fingers, dried up blood coming out of Harry’s skin like ink from an old painting. The boy’s lips were dry and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. 

“It’s certainly strange,” Voldemort spoke, “to have spent so long trying to kill you.”

Harry laughed a humourless laugh.

“It’s ironic,” He replied “I wish you had succeeded.”

“That saviour complex of yours is a gift that keeps on giving, Harry.” 

 _Voldemort knows you,_ Hermione had said, a lifetime ago.

“There are lives you want to save, people you want me to spare. What can you offer me in return?” The Dark Lord asked, sounding like a very amused teacher waiting for the worst of his students to give him a wrong answer.

“There’s nothing. I have nothing.” _You took everything._  

“Think. I know you can. You were so close to defeating me after all.” Such pleasure in his voice. He seemed calmer, now. As if he could finally savour the spoils of power. Harry is one of them, he realised.

“You want my compliance.” The boy answered, a lump in his throat, cold dread filling his chest. “You want my submission.”

The man smiles.

“And all its perks.”

 

In the winter his skin becomes almost translucent. The sea is bright grey as if it was silver-made. Voldemort calls him _his pale doll._

His desperate fingers clinging to the sheets, a frail sob ripped from his throat. The shame because it wasn’t pain that caused these moans, not anymore.

 Voldemort is good at this, at thrusting into the boy and making sure his cock hits his prostate each and every time, at spreading Harry’s legs to its limits and watching as his cock disappears inside that tight, pink hole. When they first did it, Harry thought it was just another form of domination. Another weapon in Voldemort’s arsenal of torture, to be used once and then replaced. But then Voldemort was fucking him every other night and Harry realised that sex was about power, yes, but it was also an end in itself.

“Tom,” his voice is a soft, pleading one. This is what he learned: that pain makes him weak but pleasure makes him _vulnerable._ Voldemort presses the boy’s thighs to his chest, putting his legs over his shoulders, fucking him harder. Their eyes meet; a moment as sharp as a knife. This is a dance Harry knows shamefully well. His hips press in time against Voldemort’s in a way that drags his cock even deeper, and when he reaches for Tom’s face they kiss with little clumsiness. By now Voldemort knows his body better than anyone ever will. Harry comes, an expression of loss in his face. As if every orgasm is a treachery. Voldemort follows soon after, branding him with yet another mark.

“Stay,” Harry pleads, letting his legs slide to embrace Tom’s waist. He’s still inside, he’s still whole.

“If they could see you now,” The Dark Lord taints him, but his voice sounds strange. He bends to kiss Harry in the mouth. The boy moans and holds him closer. “But you are mine alone.”

“Yours.” The boy-who-lived confirms. It’s impossible not to, not in moments like this when it’s truer than ever.

He grows hard again inside Harry, as if the words had fuelled him. The boy shudders, his body tightening up against his cock. _Please,_ he says. Please, he says, a thousand times.

 

III

There was a barrier around the sea that kept him from going too far away. He couldn’t just build a raft and sail across the Atlantic, hoping to reach America before Voldemort noticed that he was gone. His cage was a golden one, yes, but still a cage.

In the beginning he still nurtured thoughts of rebellion. Silly fantasies, really. What could he do, without a wand? Barricade a door? Pour sand in Voldemort’s tea, hoping he would choke? There are knives and glass in the house, all enchanted to become blunt against human flesh. Not for his safety, Voldemort said once, playing with his hair, the weirdest pillow talk Harry had ever heard, but to prevent Harry from harming himself.

 _If I die the chances of taking him down would grow. Hermione could do it. Ron, Neville, Ginny._ He thinks, one day. The sea is wine-dark and friendly like a snake.  Harry walks until his feet touch water and keeps going until he can walk no longer. He may not reach the other side of this world, but he can reach another world entirely. The water surrounds him and kisses him coldly. Harry closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, it’s just for a moment. His lungs are burning. He retches what seems like the whole ocean onto the sand and passes out. He’s not that lucky the second time. Voldemort uses the cruciatus curse on him for the first time since the War, and Harry cries out as the pain blossoms through his skin, a bitter reminder of the past. The Dark Lord then explains, in great detail, what he will do to each and every one of Harry’s friends, if Harry was to ever try that stunt a second time.  The boy is not allowed outside the cottage for a month after that. When the punishment is over Harry never lets the sea-water touch him above the knees again.

 

Time is endless and somewhat senseless. Voldemort is his only visitor and the days worth noticing are the ones of his visits. Like holidays from the nothingness his life became. Harry reads, does chores around the house, improves his cooking, reads a little more, slowly learns how to play the piano, walks down the beach memorizing the few shells, the shape of the rocks, the occasional seagull. He counts constellations in the night sky, trying to apply the knowledge he got from the astronomy classes.  A sequence of distractions. He misses quidditch, his friends, the grasp of a wand, Hogwarts. He misses the time when his feelings towards the Dark Lord were simpler, clearer. He misses not missing him.

He can feel the machinery of his own mind; he can number the scars inside. It’s an incurable disease: his heart is poisoned with need, with longing, Harry gets restless. When is Voldemort coming back? He aches, sickened at himself, at what he’s feeling, but feeling it nonetheless.  This is stronger than a spell, and he has to give it to the Dark Lord, it works wonderfully. Voldemort is hated by the boy but needed a hundred times more.

Late nights, his body humping the sheets, the pillow, two fingers as deep as they’ll go inside him, the boy moaning the same cursed name: _Tom, Tom, Tom._

Loneliness hurts more than any curse.

 

IV

His hands are tied up to the bedhead and his body is already painted crimson, teeth marks covering the pale skin. Voldemort takes one of the boy’s nipple in his mouth, bites and sucks on it until it’s red and hard. Harry moans, arches his back, his long eyelashes already wet with tears. They’ve been at that for what feels like ages and Harry needs desperately to come, to be fucked, to be ripped open and torn apart.

“Tell me how much you missed it.” Tom orders, amused, aroused, looking at Harry like he wants to eat him alive.

Harry sobs.

“Oh God--”

“ _Tell me._ ” The Dark Lords repeats, now in the language spoken only by them. His words are like silk cutting the air. He takes the boy’s erection in his hand, giving it a few shallow pumps. Harry’s eyes roll back and he moans.

“You, ah, please, you _know_ , I—I missed it so much, please…!”

Voldemort spreads Harry’s legs and settles between them, the boy’s knees caressing the sides of his body. Harry looks at him and hates him, _hates him so much_ , and has never wanted anyone like this. As if he’ll burn from the inside out if the other wizard stops touching him. He sucks hungrily on the finger Voldemort presses against his lips.

“What a beautiful, needy thing you’ve become.” The words sting but Harry doesn’t stop mimicking on the finger what he earlier did with the Dark Lord’s cock. “My whore, my pretty little horcrux.” Harry hates the heat that pools in his belly with those words and the way his legs fall open in a shameless invitation.

Voldemort pulls the finger out of Harry’s mouth and presses against the boy’s fluttering entrance.

“You missed this," he says, thrusting the finger in, feeling the body clench around it, greedily, hungrily.

“ _Yes!”_

“You missed _me._ ”

Voldemort sees then, the arrangement of emotions in the boy’s face, like colours fading from the sky in the twilight. It’s a beautiful sequence: rage, humiliation, the resigned blush spreading through his cheeks. Harry doesn’t look at him when he answers:

“I missed you.”

He rewards he boy by finger-fucking him, grazing the boy’s prostate, while whispering a spell that coats his own erection with lube.

Harry pulls the ropes, a wordless request, his body trembling in anticipation. It’s almost unbearable not to hold Voldemort with his arms as the wizard takes out his finger and replaces it with his cock, pushing in one fluid movement that has Harry’s pleasure tempered with just a hint of pain.

 

This time, he doesn’t need to ask Voldemort to stay. And yet he wants to beg. He wants to say please one thousand times more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Princess Scotia who beta it for me <3.  
> English is not my first language, comments/critics are appreciated.


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